Never Better
by Tazlet
Summary: An amuse bouche for fans of the big guys in blue.


**Never Better  
** by Taz

Muted bells were ringing in the distance, calling him up. Where? The question was asked, but there was gentle pressure on his shoulder and the distant thrumming of great engines was like a heartbeat. He fell back down the black well.

When he came up, he opened his eyes and, blinking at the soft red light surrounding him, was able to take inventory. For the first time in weeks the persistent buzzing in his ears, and in his brain, was silent; he was pain free; almost comfortable. Except for a persistent itch just above his left eyebrow which, in the way of such things, immediately began to prickle maddeningly. He tried to scratch, and discovered that his hands wouldn't work. The fact of that wasn't as annoying as the itch. He turned his head to try and rub against the pillow but couldn't reach that far. Then an alarm started to buzz, and he was back in the hooch. Trapped!

Unable to fight or flee, he threw his head back and forth, and tried to pull his hands free.

"Corpsman!" Someone shouted.

"Let me, Sir!"

Hulking black shapes, impossible to identify, loomed up on either side of him, performed a terrifying mating dance, and, suddenly, the alarm went silent. He stopped struggling. The room, though, went on moving, tilting back and forth, and his stomach…

"G'n be sick!"

"Hold on, Captain Slattery!" a voice said. "I'm giving you something for that. It will help you relax."

He felt a welcome spurt of coolness up inside his arm and, perceptively, the roiling of his stomach subsided. At the same rate it came to him, and he accepted the fact, that he was in the Nathan James' sickbay. The Hospital Corpsman treating him was one of his own crew. The maddening itch was still there, though.

"Relax Mike." A gentle hand found his shoulder and squeezed. "I'm right here."

Dimly, in the satanic lighting, Slattery made out the reality of Tom Chandler beside him. He tried to order the corpsman to untie him, but only managed a hoarse croak.

The corpsman looked over at Chandler, who gave an affirmative nod. "I'll stay with him."

"Let me get another bag started, Sir,"

A fresh IV bag was exchanged for an empty one. The pulse oximeter was removed from his finger, setting off a beeping alarm that made him want to scream, but then, his hands were free, and when the finger probe was replaced, the beeping stilled.

"There's ice in the pitcher, Captain Chandler. He can suck on ice chips, if he's thirsty. No water. I'll be outside if you need me."

Slattery waited for the HC to pull the curtain behind him, but as if reading his mind, Chandler caught his hand in a grip that wasn't remotely gentle.

"Leave it!" he said. "You've got stitches."

 _Stitches?!_

Slattery tried to sit up then and discovered two things: that any movement of his head made him dizzy and that, even though the corpsman had untied his hands, he was fixed to the bed, tied down bodily. He shot a desperate appeal at Chandler and, after a bit of fumbling, the bed folded up bringing them eye-to-eye.

"Water!" he croaked.

He got ice chips, and sucked on them avidly, along with Chandler's wet fingers until, finally, he coughed up the clot in his throat, and was able to speak. "Why am I tied up?"

"We're heading into a blow."

It hurt to think, but he could feel the ship bounding harder. He was tied down for his own safety. But that didn't explain the stitches. He stifled an impulse to touch his forehead, but Chandler must have caught the slight twitch.

"What do you remember?"

That hurt worse.

"I was sitting in door of the helo… Nothing after. What'd I miss?"

"All sorts of excursions and alarms, after you fainted at the top of a ladder."

"That…" It took a minute "Must have been awkward."

"No. I'd give the fall a 4, but you nailed the landing. You split your eyebrow, you have a knot the size of a goose egg on your head, and a black eye. You're probably concussed, but you were out cold and we couldn't ask."

Settling back in his chair, Chandler made a steeple of his hands with the point of his fingers just touching his lower lip. He looked like a brooding thunderbird.

"You're pissed," Slattery said.

"What gave you the clue? I am royally pissed." Chandler was keeping his voice down. Their conversation was private, but every word he out of his mouth was barbed and precise. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What? That I was Takehya's blood bank?!"

"That you were dehydrated, and dangerously anemic."

And there it was.

Amongst all of his other manifold discomforts, Slattery could feel his face burning. It was worse than if he'd been caught cheating. Being a prisoner. Rendered weak. Failing the ship. Being used _that_ way. His blood flowing in Takehya's veins. Impossible to describe the hideous, perverted intimacy if it. Not my fault! _Not my fault! Where were you Tom!_

"I want to kill the son of a bitch!"

He hadn't realized he'd spoken the words aloud, until Chandler said, "Get in line."

Chandler's eyes were closed now, but Slattery could see the glistening tracks of the tears on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to forcibly blink back the tears that were welling up in his own eyes. He bumped the bed rail and somehow, their fingers became laced together

"So am I." There was a catch in Chandler's voice. "And if you ever—let me repeat—ever, pull anything like that again," suddenly Chandler's eyes were open and he was scowling, as he gripped Slattery's hand hard, "I swear I will turn you over my knee and beat the living daylights out of you."

As a warning from a commanding officer, it was entirely out of line. But coming from Chandler, though unexpected, it was the reassurance Slattery needed.

"Is that a threat, or a promise?" he said.

"Are you calling my bluff?" Chandler said.

"No. If that's how it's going to be, I'm with you…" Slattery's throat was still so dry, that he started coughing.

Chandler stood and fed him more ice chips, one after the other until the spasm was over.

"Better?"

"Sorry. Not my best."

"Do you need the corpsman?"

"No," Slattery whispered, and then realized that fluids going into him now needed to come out. "Maybe. Yes."

"We're all right, Mike."

"I just wanted to know if I can expect the back of your hand, or your belt."

"The back of my hand." There was a delicate caress of Chandler's knuckle at corner of Slattery's mouth. It was a both a kiss, and a promise. "Now, get well. That's an order."

He turned with intent, and, Slattery remembered to beg, "Don't shout!"

Too late.

"Corpsman!"

The shout reverberated in his head, but it didn't matter. They were all right.

 _Finis  
7/20/2016_


End file.
